


Drift

by moonlighten



Series: Rookery Downs [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur's siblings always ruin everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift

Yesterday, the snow had been light and it had hardly settled at all save for a few cottony tufts along the very highest branches of the very tallest trees at the edge of the Kirkland estate.  
  
This morning, when Arthur peeps through his bedroom curtains – anticipation fluttering tiny wings inside his chest even as he tells himself not to expect to see anything out of the ordinary – it looks as though the entire sky has fallen overnight. Above and below, as far as he can see, everything is white.  
  
He snatches up his camera, flings on his dressing gown, and runs downstairs as fast as his feet will take him. Mum catches him as he unlatches the front door, though; her arms wrapping lightly around his waist as she picks him up and swings him away from it.  
  
“You’re not going out there in your pyjamas,” she says, the laughter twining through her voice making it sound warm and light. “Or without shoes. And definitely not without your breakfast.”  
  
Mum’s made bacon and eggs – “You need something warm,” she says, “on a day like today” – a rare treat, but one Arthur hasn’t the time to appreciate. He shovels them into his mouth so quickly that he doesn’t even have chance to taste them; they may as well be made from cardboard.  
  
“You’re going to get tummy ache,” Dylan says, and the amount of anxiety in his voice makes Arthur feel as though he has to spare a moment to glance across the table towards him.  
  
His brother’s eyebrows are scrunched together so firmly they almost meet in the middle, and he seems more intent on worrying his bottom lip with his teeth than eating the small, neat square of bacon that’s skewered on the tines of his fork.  
  
Arthur shrugs dismissively, because it doesn’t really matter if he spends the rest of the day in bed, clutching his stomach; he only needs a couple of minutes.  
  
Dylan opens his mouth again, but whether he was planning on nagging Arthur again himself or calling out for Mum to do it for him, he’s interrupted by the thud of feet descending the stairs that link the rose bedroom with the kitchen.  
  
Judging by the rhythm of the thuds, they’re caused by Alasdair, who always jumps down two steps at a time even though Mum keeps warning him that he’ll ‘break his neck one of these days,’ if he carries on doing it.  
  
It’s not often Arthur finds himself grateful for his big brother’s existence, but he’s glad of it now, because as soon as Dylan places the sound himself, he seems to lose interest in Arthur entirely, just as Arthur knew he would.  
  
Arthur wolfs down the rest of his egg whilst Dylan’s back is turned. He doesn’t even bother to chew it.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though Mum had made him bundle up in enough layers that he can barely even move, the coldness of the air still hits Arthur hard enough to hurt as soon as he steps foot outside. It makes his lungs sting and his eyes water, and pinches at the tips of his fingers even through the thick wool of his mittens.

To Arthur’s mind, though, the view is more than worth any discomfort.

The house and grounds look to have been coated in stiff icing like a cake decorated by some giant, unseen hand. Every blade of dying grass, every puddle, every furrow, rock and even the rotting fence is buried; all blemishes hidden away beneath a crisp layer of dazzling white.

And thus buried, it’s easy to pretend they don’t exist. To pretend everything is perfect, and that when the snow melts away again, the rose garden won’t be a thick, ugly tangle of overgrown branches, the duck pond won’t stink of stagnant water and bird shit, and the house will be as proud and sturdy as it was in the old black and white photographs Granddad had once shown him, taken when his own father was a boy.

For the first time Arthur can ever remember, it looks beautiful enough to deserve being photographed as much as it did then. He starts fumbling in his coat pocket for his camera, but it’s difficult to find purchase on its smooth, shiny surface with his mitten-clawed hand.

“It looks really nice, doesn’t it?” Dylan chimes in from beside him, and even though his voice is soft, Arthur still resents the intrusion.

He hadn’t wanted his brother to come along with him at all, but Dylan had been moping around the place, looking as though he wanted to cry, because Alasdair disappeared off with Caitlin after breakfast, and so Mum insisted he had to.

Dylan had at least carefully trodden in Arthur’s footprints, and resisted the temptation to grab up any snow along their way, but it’s no surprise, really, that he can’t keep his mouth shut, even though Arthur had asked for all three.

He seems to think everyone needs to hear every last thought that passes through his mind, judging by the regularity with which he shares them.

“Like a Christmas card or something,” Dylan continues, apparently unperturbed by both Arthur’s lack of response and his warning frown. “Do you remember –”

Whatever pointless reminiscence Dylan was about to share is cut short by a sharp inhalation quickly followed by a low groan of pain. Arthur’s almost glad of it until he notices the snow sliding down the side of Dylan’s head and realises what must have caused it.

The second snowball grazes Arthur’s ear, accompanied by a bellowed, “Heads up!”

Arthur whirls around just in time to avoid being hit by the snowball Caitlin throws, which lands a glancing blow on Dylan’s shoulder instead. Alasdair is crouched down low next to her, his cupped hands carving two fresh divots out of the already heavily pitted snow at their feet. Both of the twins are laughing, breath spewing out in great, thick clouds of mist as Dylan’s had done, marring the cool stillness of the air.

The sight makes Arthur’s stomach hurt, but not in the way Dylan had warned him about. It’s something hot and twisting and angry; something that makes him feel as though he _has_ to shout, “Stop it! You’re ruining everything!”

“Ruining what?” Alasdair asks as he straightens up, slowly and methodically crushing the snow tight between his hands. Despite Mum’s advice, he’s not wearing gloves, and the skin across his knuckles is already red and swollen. “ _This_ is what snow is for, runt.”

“No, it’s not,” Arthur says. “It’s –“

“For making snowmen?” Caitlin finishes for him, earning herself a grin from Alasdair. “Good idea, Art.”

Before Arthur can tell her that’s not what he meant at all, Dylan says one of the worst things he could possibly say. “We just thought it looked pretty when it was all fresh and clean.”

Alasdair’s grin sharpens, full of teeth and menace. “Pretty?” he scoffs, cocking one eyebrow. “You two are such –” ‘Girls’ is hastily gulped down before Alasdair can finish saying it, probably because Caitlin would smack him for it, and she hits hard enough to land even him on his arse. “You’re so wet,” he finishes.

As if to reinforce his point, Alasdair strides forward and grabs hold of Arthur before he even has chance to think about running away. He pulls Arthur’s many collars away from his neck with one hand, and then drops the clump of snow he was holding down the inside of his bottommost shirt with the other.

The sudden deep chill of it makes the muscles in Arthur’s chest spasm so hard that it forces him gasp a breath to stop his head spinning from the shock of it. His hands move automatically, first to Alasdair’s wrists, then, on finding that his grip is far too strong to break, to his own back, trying to shake the snow free. His arms aren’t quite long enough to reach, however, and he only succeeds in mashing the snow into a finer powder, which slithers down his spine to collect along the waistband of his trousers, chilling the thin, vulnerable skin at the small of his back.

More than anything, Arthur wants to punch Alasdair, as it’s one of the only things that makes him let go once he’s latched on like this. His hands do make fists but he can’t quite find the courage to twist around and land them, because the last time he tried, Alasdair had simply picked him up and then thrown him into the duck pond.

Its water was frigid then, at the height of summer, so Arthur can’t even begin to imagine how cold it’d be now it’s half frozen over, and he doesn’t want to find out.

This leaves him with only a single weapon left in his arsenal, though it is a big gun. A huge gun, really, and one they all usually avoid deploying except in the direst of circumstances.

Arthur’s has used it on Alasdair several times since the duck pond without suffering even a twinge of guilt, however, and he doesn’t feel one now when he says, “I’m going to tell Mum.”

Alasdair drops him immediately, and the look he turns on Arthur afterwards is utterly betrayed. “Jesus, Arse,” he says, eyebrows shooting up so high that they disappear under the shaggy fringe of hair that has fallen forward to cover most of his forehead. “We’re just trying to have some fun.”

The use of that horrible nickname – minted by Alasdair just last month to replace ‘Fart’, which had apparently started to lose its charm as an insult after a mere year of constant use – makes Arthur even gladder that he’d loosed his own threat. “I don’t think it’s fun.”

“You don’t think anything’s fun.” Alasdair’s expression shifts suddenly, unease hardening into defiance. “Go and whinge at Mum about how fucking mean I am, then,” he snaps, kicking a spray of snow up over Arthur as he starts to run. “I don’t fucking care.”

“I’ll tell her you swore, too,” Arthur shouts out after him.

“I don’t care!” drifts back, barely audible as Alasdair’s voice becomes smothered by distance and the heavy blanket of snow’s muffling thickness.

His feet kick up huge clods of snow behind him; far larger, Arthur thinks, than are truly necessary, which suggests he’s doing it on purpose, simply because he knows Arthur will hate to see how much destruction he’s leaving in his wake.

Which Arthur does, so much so that he’s almost tempted to hurl his own snowball after his brother’s rapidly retreating back. The only thing that stops him is knowing that he’d never be able to throw one that far, because the damage has already been done, after all. One more little scrape couldn’t hurt things any more than they have been.

Caitlin sets off after Alasdair without even a perfunctory apology for her part in everything – not that Arthur was really expecting one – leaving Dylan alone to help Arthur try and rid his clothing of the last of the clinging lumps of snow before they turn into icy meltwater and soak him through entirely.

Although Dylan professes to worry that Arthur might catch a cold over and over again, his concern doesn’t sound as genuine as it might usually be and his hands are uncharacteristically rough. He seems distracted, his eyes flicking constantly towards the far end of the formal garden, where Alasdair and Caitlin seem to have settled into building some kind of snow fort.

When Arthur announces he’s going back to the house, he isn’t surprised that Dylan doesn’t follow him.

 

* * *

 

Even after changing into his thickest pyjamas, jumper and socks, Arthur still can’t stop shivering, and by the time he reaches Mum’s sewing room, he cares much more about getting warm than telling her about what Alasdair had done.

And it’s always cosy in the sewing room, even when the rest of the house isn’t, because it’s so small and snug, with a deep, soft carpet that Arthur loves to sink his toes into on those few days of the year that the weather is hot enough for him to go about the place barefoot without fear of getting chilblains afterwards.

There’s only one window in the room, but it’s large enough that Mum has been able to set both her sewing machine and short sofa in front of it, so she can best use the light from it, no matter what she needs to sew.

Today, she’s sitting on the sofa, a lacemaking pillow on her knees, her hands constantly in motion as she weaves and whirls the bobbins around each other, deft and confident even though she only just learnt how to make lace at all a couple of weeks ago.

“Is that for your dress?” Arthur whispers as quietly as he’d opened the door earlier, because he’s just as loath to disturb her as he is eager to talk to her.

Curiosity can’t help but win out, however, as Arthur has been fascinated by the slow construction of his mum’s wedding dress from the moment she finished the very first stitch on it.

Arthur was perhaps a little _too_ quiet before, because Mum’s head snaps up quickly, as though surprised to hear his voice; her deep green eyes blinking wide and shocked-looking. She recovers quickly, though, her slightly gaped mouth closing into a warm smile as she motions for him to come closer.

“It is,” she says, holding out the short length of lace she’s already finished so Arthur can see it better. “Or, at least, it’s supposed to be. At the rate I’m going, I’m not sure I’ll manage to finish enough to trim ONE sleeve in time, never mind two.”

With the reminder that Mum’s wedding is so close – less than three months away now by Arthur’s count – Arthur’s interest in the delicate, flowery fabric immediately evaporates. He always prefers to think of Mum making the dress just because she wants something lovely to wear, and whenever he stops to admire the beadwork on its bodice or the elaborate embroidery on its train, he puts all thoughts of her marrying Robert firmly to the back of his mind.

Because, with each day that passes, he wants it to happen less and less. Robert’s okay, he supposes – he’s always willing to play a game of Scrabble with Arthur and Dylan, or kick a football around with the four of them – but, between her work and three demanding siblings, Arthur doesn’t get to spend as much time as he’d want to with Mum _now_ and he can only imagine it’ll get even worse with a _husband_ around, too.

Arthur can’t remember what it was like to have a dad about the place, but from what he’s seen of his friends’ parents, his mum’s attention’s likely going to be even more divided after the wedding.

(Though not as badly as it would be, he’s sure, if Mum had another baby, and Alasdair’s been taunting him with just that possibility from the moment Mum got engaged. Even though he’s never even been to a church since he was christened, Arthur prays every night that she doesn’t.)

“It’s nice,” is all he can bring himself to say, even though he thinks it’s just as beautiful as everything else Mum has ever made.

If Mum’s disappointed in his lukewarm response at all, it doesn’t show in her face. In fact, her smile only grows broader, and she pats the sofa cushion next to her, obviously inviting him to sit there.

Arthur readily accepts, though he means to settle himself a fair distance away so Mum can continue her lacemaking without him getting in the way of her elbows, and perhaps jogging one so badly that she ends up ruining the pattern.

Mum hooks an arm around his back, however, pulling him closer until his head is pillowed against her bony shoulder.

“I thought you and Dylan were going to go out and take photographs of the snow,” she says, setting her pillow aside so she can run the fingers of her other hand through his hair. Her short, rounded fingernails scrape against his scalp lightly making it tingle in a way that makes him feel warm and drowsy.

“We were,” Arthur says, “but then Alasdair and Cait came along and ruined everything. And Dylan still went off with them afterwards anyway.”

Despite the relaxation seeping down through his body, loosening his muscles and dragging his eyelids closed, Arthur still finds himself frowning at the memory. He and Dylan are practically twins – ‘Irish twins’ according to Granddad, because there’s less than a year between them, even though Mum tells him not to call them that because it’s an ‘outdated and offensive stereotype’ or something like – and yet Dylan _never_ picks him first, the way Caitlin and Alasdair always do with each other. Sometimes, it makes him like Dylan even less than their big brother.

“And Alasdair shoved a snowball down the back of my shirt,” he finishes, the frown deepening.

Mum smoothes out his furrowed eyebrows with the pad of her thumb and then promises, “I’ll have a word with him later.”

The last ‘word’ Mum had had with Alasdair on Arthur’s behalf was prompted by the duck pond, and whatever she said to Alasdair then had made him cry for nearly two hours afterwards. The thought makes Arthur smile and snuggle even tighter against Mum’s side, burrowing his nose into the soft wool of her baggy jumper and inhaling deeply.

All the mums he reads about in books seem to smell of ‘home’ or ‘sunshine’, but his mum just smells like washing powder, apple shampoo, and the lavender-scented cream she rubs into her hands to stop her skin from drying out. Arthur loves it all the same, though, and it makes him feel just as safe as the children of those book-mothers always do when they catch scent of those more abstract things.

“There’s an old rhyme about weddings,” Mum says eventually, rousing Arthur from the light doze he had started slipping into. “All about the things you’re supposed to do on your wedding day to bring good luck.

“’Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in her shoe.’ Have you heard that before?”

Arthur’s read about that in one of his books, too, and he nods.

Mum leans away from him for a moment, and when she moves back, she presses a small square of light blue cotton into his hand. “Well, I thought you could make me a handkerchief out of this, then I can carry it in my bag and it’ll be something new _and_ something blue. Would you like to do that?”

Arthur nods again, even more firmly than before. No matter how he might feel about the wedding itself, he does like the idea that he might be able to bring his Mum some luck. Granddad’s often said she doesn’t have nearly enough of it.

“Do you remember how we made the last one, or do you want me to show you again?” Mum asks.

“I remember,” Arthur reassures her.

He also thinks he can remember how he might embroider a little rose on it, too, like she’d shown him when they’d made that last handkerchief for Grandma. She’d love that, he thinks, because she’s always said they’re her favourite flower.


End file.
